Blood and Ash
by IncanPriest
Summary: Over the space of months, even years Violet and Tate start breaking down the veil that is parting them, while another, more profound veil starts slipping. As life and death start to mingle a mysterious book appears that seems to hold the secret to the house and how to end everything.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my own creation. American Horror Story is the creative property of Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. Rated T.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong>

The wood of the window-frame beneath her fingers was warm from the memory of the afternoon sun. She could just stand there. Perhaps sit on the window-ledge. Hell, she might as well just jump out. _It wasn't like it made a difference anymore_, she realised letting out a bitter huff at the thought of being dead anyway.

Some might think it was tragic to pass away at such a young age. She just felt bullshitted by fate for being stuck in that house with a host of crazy ghosts. Of course she still had her family with her, but she figured her parents were too wrapped up in their joy over their creepy, never-aging baby to remember she was also still there.

It wasn't all bad though. She had enough to occupy herself with as there were quite a few books, also boxes of stuff left there years ago that she found in the attic and basement and there was always Bo, who she played with for hours on end, the only trace of his existence being the red ball he would roll in her direction. But time passes slowly when it loses all meaning and stretches out into the daunting prospect of eternity.

And what frightened her the most was the question, when their Internet connection would be cut. After all, her laptop was her only link to the outside world, of which she still considered herself a part.

Her fear was probably founded in the observations she made of some of the other inhabitants of the house. _And wow were they bat-shit._ One of her greatest questions was whether she would walk around planning dinner parties for people who had died decades ago, like she had seen Nora do.

But for the moment, she guessed, with her head out the window, looking up at the clear night sky, she would have to wait. What for, stayed an unanswered question.

With one leg swung out already, she dragged the rest of her body behind her, supporting her weight with her hands that were steadied on the wood, which was faded by many days of exposure to the elements. Perhaps it had once been dark brown, perhaps not. For a second she contemplated letting herself drop down to feel the sensation of her stomach pushing up against her lungs, squeezing what little air was left in them out in a silent cry. But Violet was hardly masochistic, and she figured she could do without the pain of crashing onto the paved pathway beneath her feet and feeling her bones crush from the impact, for the time being.

So she decided to just look out at the world she was actually allowed to walk out into once a year. _Wow. Props to whoever had thought of that deal. _

Pulling a half-smoked cigarette out of the pocket of her trousers she prayed she would be able to light it again. Lately, she had had to ration them, as her pack was almost empty and Constance objected to buying her more, as it was bad for her. Apparently even for a ghost-girl. However, she must be a little lax with her rules, as Violet would occasionally find a fresh pack on the kitchen counter. Maybe it was Constance's way of repaying her for her mother's sacrifice of dying so she could have that devil-child of Tate's. _Tate._

She quickly shook the thought of him out of her head and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, it being the only thing to taint the sky. The wind blew it away in a heartbeat, and she wished it would take her as well. When she realised it wouldn't, she flicked the cigarette down and watched the glowing butt drop below her. Letting her eyes scan the garden for one last time, she might have caught a figure scurrying off behind a corner, the moonlight reflecting off its blond hair.

* * *

><p>It wasn't like he was watching her. At first. He was in the garden anyway. After all, he had decided to go out, because he found himself forgetting what the sky looked like and losing track of the seasons, which was undeniably a sign of him slipping into insanity. <em>It's not like he was born a little mixed up.<em>

He was constantly avoiding Violet, yet yearning for and somehow always crossing paths with her- though he always found a nook to disappear into before she could see him. That was how she wanted things, after all.

Lately, he had decided the best way to do what she wanted and "go away", was to stay in the basement. He had Nora there, who would wail all the time, but at least she was some sort of company. And he felt like she was the only one who actually liked him. _Surprise, surprise. _

Whatever span of time was defined by lately, could only be guessed at. He often felt suspended in a dream-like state, barely realising what was going on around him.

The pictures from the past would come to him at times like that. Walking into school heavily armed. He was a fighter, a knight. Ridding the world of dirt. Or at least that's what it used to be like.

Something had changed in him. Instead of the euphoria, the satisfaction that he used to feel when thinking back to that day, there was an underlying sense of, not exactly remorse, but an uncomfortable feeling that gnawed at his subconscious. For the first time he saw the faces of the students, saw their eyes, all wide open, pleading him not to shoot. Like that changed anything.

And there she was, the subject of most of his thoughts. He couldn't understand. Well, he could, but he didn't want to. Sometimes Tate asked himself, if she also lay awake at night, wishing he was next to her.

He just wanted her to talk to him. Perhaps they could figure things out; be like before. The thought made him snort. _Bullshit._ Like that was possible.

She looked like what he imagined an angel would look like. His mum had told him about them back when he was younger and when she actually had time for him, because she wasn't busy sucking off their neighbour. He had quickly learned to hate her.

Then it suddenly hit Tate that he was standing out in the open, for anyone to see. _For Violet to see._ Hoping she hadn't caught a glimpse of him, he tried to disappear round the corner. He hated having to hide like this. It tore him up inside.

It fucking hurt.

**A/N: This is my first chapter of a new fanfiction I have been thinking about for a while. Sorry about how short it is, I just want to test the waters a little (But don't worry I have the next chapter almost finished!). Please R&R, I would greatly appreciate it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my own creation. American Horror Story is the creative property of Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. Rated T.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong>

The room was dark, barely illuminated by the little light that came from the other side of the door. All of the windows were shuttered. Maybe so you couldn't see the dust that had collected over time and was settling on books and furniture like grey snow. It wasn't like it mattered to anyone anyhow. Her dad hardly ever entered the room that used to be his office and nobody else cared to leave their chosen spots around the house.

At first she didn't know what she was looking for, but something drew her there, and as she stumbled around in the dusty, black mess that was a room, she accidentally knocked the coffee table, which was stupidly placed between an armchair and the couch.

Standing in the dark she cursed.

As Violet bent down to pick up books and papers she had sent into disorder, she had to search the ground with no light to indicate where she had to look.

There was of course the option of opening the shutters on the windows, but she didn't want anyone to see and disturb her.

Kneeling on the floor, she slid her hands across the wood, mainly gathering up dust. The couch to her right was the next place she looked. However, as she moved them under the piece of furniture, her fingers met something, which immediately made her flinch. What she had touched felt a lot more like skin than paper.

She pulled back her hand and clasped it over her mouth so she wouldn't scream.

However, there was no one but herself in the room, as she heard no breathing or movement.

Violet carefully walked to the door, always facing the couch.

She wondered why she was shaking so much.

_Stop being so stupid. It was probably just a leather-bound book or something. Come on now. Go and pick it up and have it done with. What are you so afraid of?_

She walked back to where she had fled from a minute ago; slowly at first, then, rolling her eyes at her behaviour, at a normal pace. Without giving herself time for second thoughts, she dove under the couch and quickly grabbed whatever was lying there, determined to be able to leave straight afterwards.

What she held in her hands was indeed a book, but it was bound in a material that lacked the tough and dry texture of leather. It was soft and warm like the skin of a living, breathing person. She could hardly tell the difference between the material that had been used for the book and her own skin.

Wide-eyed and fingers shaking, Violet stared at the book in her hands. She had two possibilities: a.) leave it where she had found it or b.) take it with to her room.

She chose the latter: Partly because, for some weird reason, she didn't want anybody else to find it; but mainly because she was _bored _with her life; or should she say death. Nothing ever happened and this would entertain her for at least a few hours. There was also something that seemed slightly off about the book, which she liked.

Deciding that nobody would notice it tucked under her bulky cardigan she left the room and slipped into hers as quickly as possible.

This, for some reason, gave her a sense of privacy, although she knew that anyone could come in at any time and there wasn't really much she could do about it.

Her eyes slowly adapted to the bright sunlight that was pouring into her room from the window, which she couldn't remember having opened.

But this didn't concern her at that moment and was briefly noticed yet not thought about.

She still stood leaning onto the bedroom door, unconsciously digging the nails of her left hand into the wood, while the right one supported the weight of the book.

Her beating heart and fast, shallow breathing expressed her feeling of impending disaster, which wasn't founded in anything going on at that moment.

The longer she stayed in that position, however, the stronger this anxiety became. Waves of goose bumps raced up and down her body; her mind voiced its frightened thoughts as a whisper in her ear. The ordinary features of her room seemed to be warped into something surreal, despite not changing their appearance.

These moments left her gasping for breath, as if she hadn't breathed for several minutes.

In one swift motion she flung the book away from herself, without even having thought about doing anything of the kind. Something made her think that it was responsible for what she had felt just then, but she quickly dismissed the thought telling herself not to be ridiculous.

Exhausted and confused by this experience, her knees gave in under her weight and she slid to the ground unable to break her fall. Her arms hung limp by her side. Before she could do anything, consciousness slipped away from her and was replaced by blackness.

When she awoke later on, she noticed that some time must have passed, because her room looked much darker than it had done before.

There was still no power in her limbs. Despite that she tried to drag herself across the floor to where her bed was. Any movement resulted in a stab of migraine to her left temple.

All this was too much for her to bear and she, once again, collapsed on the ground; this time right next to where the book had landed on her carpet, not quite knowing what to do.

The volume lay there and Violet decided to read it, as that was what she had dragged it to her room for, after all.

Dismissing her behaviour as some sort of panic attack, she slowly straightened up from her cowering position. As she looked around the room, her eyes fixed on the bedside cabinet, where she remembered having a pack of cigarettes.

By stretching her arm out far, she managed to reach the drawer of the cabinet and open it. But she couldn't reach inside from her position and tried to pull the drawer out further, which resulted in her pulling the whole cabinet towards herself. It toppled over and crashed onto the floor right next to her.

Violet cursed under her breath, hoping the noise hadn't raised the suspicion of any of the ghosts. The contents of the drawer were scattered on the floor. Among them was something she recognised to be a pack of cigarettes.

Pulling out the last one from the pack and lighting it with a match from a box she had in her trouser pocket, she hoped it would calm her down. She almost dropped the lit match onto the floor because her hands were shaking so much.

A few minutes were enough for her to calm herself down again. The cigarette was a lot steadier in her hand and she frequently glanced at the book on the floor, deciding what to do.

Violet had grabbed hold of the book before even deciding to do so. She held it in front of her face. For the first time she had the opportunity to examine it closely. It looked like any ordinary leather-bound book. The gold lettering on the front and spine bore the title "Tales of the Pure, the Obscure and the Sinister". However, despite its ordinary appearance, she still thought that the red material the book was bound in felt like the skin of a living creature.

In some places the material looked worn and she could see that the pages were yellowed. Overall it appeared to be quite old; possibly as old as the house.

Violet's interest was rekindled and the goose bumps she got when touching the book weren't uncomfortable anymore. They were more like those one would get when witnessing something especially exciting.

Feeling a lot more at ease and like herself again, she almost laughed at how ridiculous she had acted only hours ago. She supposed the excitement of something new in the house, coupled with the fright she got when finding the book in the library had simply been overwhelming to her.

Lost in thought Violet had forgotten all about her cigarette and was harshly called back to reality by being burnt on the finger by the glowing stump. She laid the book back onto the ground and walked to the window to throw the cigarette butt out into the garden.

A crow that landed on a branch of the tree opposite her window made her think about what she had been told about the freedom of birds and she, more than ever before, longed to have that freedom.

Something, however, was weird about the bird, as it stared straight at her, not moving once. Its beady eyes fixed on hers.

Violet shuddered and closed her window and the curtains. Despite all this, she still felt like she was being observed.

Her room was now completely dark, but she couldn't open the curtains again. The bird was, no doubt, still there.

There was really no reason why she should be afraid of it, but she felt like she needed some time alone to make up her mind and calm down and the bird disturbed that.

There was only one light switch and it was on the wall on the other side of the room, which was still in a mess with half her possessions scattered across the floor.

In a few strides she crossed the room and reached the light switch, but noticed it didn't work.

She stood there frozen for a moment, then realised their electricity must have been cut and cursed under her breath. There was no way she could read the book without a source of light.

On top of being haunted by a bloody history, the house was now also enveloped in darkness for 12 hours of the day, which undoubtedly added to its many charms.

Violet once again found herself in a dilemma. She wanted to read the book on her bedroom floor, but she would need candles to do that. However, she didn't know where she would find any and didn't really feel like searching for them in the pitch-black house, never knowing when a ghost might jump out at her and also didn't feel like accidentally falling down the staircase or tripping over something that was left on the ground by someone.

Given the situation she didn't really have a choice and decided to wait until morning.

* * *

><p>He didn't really know what lead him there. It was kind of also his room, which actually gave him the right to be there, but he would hardly believe thoughts like this. Everything about it spoke of her. From the clothes that lay scattered on the floor by the bed, to the laptop on the desk.<p>

This was hers and he had no business to be there. There was nothing he could do there anyhow and what sense was there in being in her room, if she wasn't with him?

But Tate couldn't bring himself to leave, no matter how well he knew he should. He was held there by some weird combination of hope and remembrance.

Remembrance because of a stack of CDs he saw standing on a table. Because of her bed. And hope because he also saw a book about birds, which he picked up and held in his hands, his body being racked with sobs.

More than anything else, this showed him she hadn't forgotten about him. And perhaps his presence in her mind would, at some point, lead to forgiveness.

He could hear approaching footsteps and threw the book away in shock. His only possibility of leaving the room, without her knowing he had been there, was through the window.

He tore it open and stood on the window-ledge, jumping out before having time to think about the consequences. The two metre drop passed him in a haze and he felt the collision of skin with the pathway; the crunch of his breaking bones.

The feeling made his vision go black. In too much agony to even groan, he lay there. But in death pain passed faster than it ever had in life and after this first sensation of being crushed to a pulp, he quickly recovered.

The physical suffering was gone, but the tears on his cheeks, the devastated look in his eyes betrayed that it was still felt; although the origin of this pain had nothing to do with his fall.

His hands scraped the ground while Tate tried to get a grip onto something so he could drag himself up. As he lifted his eyes off the ground, there was someone standing over him.

"Now, has the strength of your passion brought you to your knees or is there some other reason you're crawling around in the dust?"

He knew her voice and without looking at her face Tate could tell Hayden had a smirk on her lips and eyes dark from disappointment and the resulting hate.

"Don't think the girl will be too thrilled when she finds out you've been creeping around her room. What'd you do there anyhow? Jerking off to her cardigan?"

Every syllable was mocking him and Tate could feel anger well up inside. Still on the ground he charged at her and exclaimed something that was a cross between a groan and a scream.

Hayden easily dodged him by stepping aside and let out a bitter laugh.

Tate didn't try to get up; he didn't think he was strong enough to. He felt Hayden crouch down next to him and jab her elbow between his shoulder blades, making him exhale sharply in slight pain and a rage that was becoming stronger with every second. Hayden's mouth moved close to his ear.

"Look here you little shit: Don't even think about it. You all think you can do what the fuck you like. I'm not having it. So hold back your fucking anger issues."

She still held him in place with her elbow, but Tate knew he was a lot stronger than her anyway.

Hayden moved her mouth even closer and he felt her reduce the pressure of her elbow.

"Why'd you even bother with her anymore, anyhow? You could have me, you know. Don't you want that?"

Her elbow was now only resting on his back.

"I could make you feel better than she ever has. What's so special about her anyway? She's-"

In one moment he gave way to his rage and whirled around punching her in the face pushing her away from him. The strength of the blow sent Hayden crashing to the ground.

His breathing heavy, Tate tried to keep his voice quiet.

"Don't you dare speak about her. She is so much more than you could ever be. You are nothing."

Hayden moved a hand to her face to stop the trickle of blood from her temple, which is where her head had collided with the pathway. She then started:

"She doesn't want you, Tate. Violet hates you and she's right to do so."

He put his hands around her throat and Hayden hissed through gritted teeth, this replacing her previous screaming.

Tate held her by the neck, lifting her off the ground slightly. In his eyes Hayden could see such rage, as she had never known to exist.

"Shut up. Shut up, you- never say her name again. And don't shout; I don't want her to witness this or I swear I will hurt you more than you ever knew was possible."

The lack of air in her system made Hayden's poker face dissipate into one of suffering, begging for mercy. Tate thoughtlessly threw her to the side and left the garden as quickly as possible, hoping his run-in with Hayden hadn't drawn Violet's attention.

When he found his way back to the basement, his fury still hadn't subsided and Tate tried to find some outlet for it. However, punching the walls did little to make him feel better and it was only after he had bashed his head against them a few times, that his pain and anger were removed for a while by him fainting.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So this chapter is a bit longer. I hope you like it. Thank you for all the views and the review. It means a lot to me! :) **

**It might take a while until chapter three is up, because I am on holiday for the next three weeks, but I'll see what I can do!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

* * *

><p>Both Tate and Violet woke when the first rays of the sun shone through their windows, though both under very different circumstances.<p>

Violet was in her bed and, as soon as she opened her eyes, felt the anticipation of some discovery or other she was to make in the book.

Tate found himself lying on the concrete floor of the basement, face and hair coated in his dried blood. There was a red mark on the wall where his head had collided with it and the sight of this blotch seemed to remind him of all the pain that sleep took away from him for a few hours.

His longing to be with Violet and knowledge that he himself was what was standing between them came crashing over him all at once. The irony of his situation made the sting all the more bitter.

Tate knew that he should think that what he did was wrong. He really did, but at the same time he found himself feeling sorry about what he had done, not because his deeds seemed wrong to him, but because he regretted that they had parted him and Violet.

He was still lying on the floor, the blood from a wound that had healed as soon as it was made still caking his face, when Nora found him.

She came around the corner wringing her hands in despair and occasionally sighing in remembrance of her lost child. It seemed that she herself had grown tired of her own incessant wailing.

As soon as she laid eyes on Tate, Nora knelt down by his side. Her precious gown was draped over the dusty ground. She held his head in one hand and caressed his cheek with the other, all the while muttering.

Her feelings towards him were almost motherly, as Tate made her think of what her own dear son might have looked like. She delicately ignored the fact that he was a homicidal rapist. All that mattered to her was that his facial features; his hair and eye colour were just like those of her son. This served as a canvas onto which she could project all the sweetness she wanted to remember her baby for.

Because of this, the sight of Tate deeply affected her and, before long, tears were dripping down onto him.

"Oh, my dear boy-"

A sob interrupted her speech. Nora took her hand from Tate's cheek to cover her mouth with it.

She tried to speak through her fingers, but could only babble. It took some time before she was composed enough to properly talk again.

"Your poor head. Why must that golden hair of yours be tainted with blood? Oh, Tate! Tate, tell me- will you leave me too?"

Another sob stopped her. Tears were freely flowing down her cheeks and onto his. Tate grabbed her waist and hid his face in Nora's stomach.

This seemed to confirm to her that his wound was fatal. Tate, however, only wanted to be held by someone and he found this someone in Nora, who had always been like a second mother to him.

The sound of Nora's wailing filled the small room in the basement, where they were. It brought Tate back to reality and he pushed himself away from her.

"Don't worry, Nora. I'm fine. Ghost wounds heal quickly, remember?"

She choked on another cry of despair.

"But; but Tate! Your head-"

This word made Nora wail again. Tate sat up and pushed hair away from his temples.

"Everything's fine, see? Get up now or you'll ruin your dress."

Nora didn't budge, not quite believing his words. Tate sighed and added a little more affectionately:

"Please, Nora. I'm fine and I'm not going anywhere, don't worry."

He held his hand in her direction to help her up. As they stood facing each other, Tate looming over Nora, her wide eyes showed him that she still worried.

This time Tate caressed her cheek, then turned to leave. He couldn't be with her anymore. Her caring only made his actual mother's deficiencies even clearer and she made him think about Constance, which is something he tried to avoid, if it was possible.

Before he knew what he was doing, Tate had left the basement and was standing in the corridor leading from the front door to the main staircase.

Tate knew why he was there and didn't, all at the same time. Lately, the thought of speaking to DR. Harmon had crept into his mind more and more often. He knew he had to, but wasn't quite sure how to and was afraid of being rejected again, as he had been before.

At the same time he also knew that DR. Harmon was the best way to get closer to Violet. Perhaps they could even resume therapy, if that was necessary for Violet to let him in again.

Tate knew exactly where to find DR. Harmon. He always spent the mornings in the living room. There the sun shone through the windows and the small stained-glass panels in them, casting colours over the wooden floor.

All Ben really did there was just sit and watch the wandering lights on the floor.

None of them in the house really had any occupation to pass the time with. Time itself had become an unknown concept to them; a distant memory from the past when it was known to pass and ultimately lead to something. In the house it had stopped in its tracks, and with it also the inhabitants' wish for it to pass.

He found DR. Harmon where he had expected to. There was an armchair in the living room that was positioned so it was facing the window looking out to the back garden. In it was Dr. Harmon, his arms slung over the armrests and unfocused eyes fixed on the ground beyond his feet.

Tate entered the room not bothering to be quiet. He knew DR. Harmon wouldn't notice him either way. It was only after he actually stood right behind him and started speaking, that Harmon even realised he was in the room.

"Look, doctor. I've been thinking quite a lot lately. About myself, about everything that's happened. It all seems so different to me now, you know? Now that I see the consequences, I guess. And I was wondering, because I felt a change in myself and I think it only really started with my therapy-"

Tate groaned and wiped his face with a hand. Now that he was speaking to DR. Harmon words failed him. The purpose of the conversation became blurry to him. He wasn't even quite sure of it anymore. Did he want to resume therapy? Beg him to make Violet forget his deeds?

Every second he spent standing in that room, behind a man he wasn't quite sure was even listening to him, made it clearer that DR. Harmon wasn't his way back to Violet; or sanity, for that matter. He had long given up on that, partly because he thought the man couldn't bring back something that had never existed, partly because he didn't see what good it would do him, now that he was dead.

DR. Harmon was listening, though, and started talking without moving his gaze from the dancing lights.

"What do you want Tate?"

The sound startled the addressed, who was hiding his eyes behind a hand he now pulled away from his face.

"I don't really know. It's just that you helped me. You really did, doctor; and I guessed that, well… I guessed that maybe you could make me even better. My brain, I mean."

"I did nothing for you, Tate. And I'm not your doctor; or anyone's for that matter. All my work- I believed it too, for a while. But we can't help people in that way. Even if I could, I wouldn't help you."

Tate could feel heat balling up in his chest at Harmon's speech, but was determined to ignore it. This man was his best bet.

"Look, doctor-"

"No, Tate. I can see you are remorseful. But I can also see that this is for the wrong reasons. You don't regret your deeds."

"But I do! Honestly, I do."

"No, Tate. You regret their consequences. That is something different."

The sigh Tate uttered at this sentence sounded more like a growl.

"I think I needed the consequences, doctor, to see that what I did was wrong. To truly see, I mean."

"Don't call me doctor."

For the first time during the whole conversation Harmon turned back to face Tate. He saw a person full of cracks, where broken pieces had carelessly been put back together.

"You see nothing, Tate, but your self-pity. I have said it before: I can't treat you anymore. The things you did to me- to my family. Wasn't it enough for you to kill us all? To condemn us to a fate far worse than death: That of being trapped forever, not truly belonging to either the realm of the living or that of the dead? No, Tate, you show no remorse and do you know why? You can't _feel _remorse."

Ben turned back around, thereby dismissing Tate from the room. Tate's head was bowed in a submissive position. His eyes, however, showed no trace of that feeling. He was failing to concentrate on suppressing what was a part of him, which was almost larger than he himself was. The bad had always outweighed the good in him and the dark the light.

He walked up to DR Harmon's chair and put his hands on the back of it. His head was still bowed and it was in this position that he spoke again. Tate was trying to keep his voice low, yet to add enough force to it to show he wouldn't leave. All his efforts were in vain, however. His voice was a harsh, shaky whisper that sounded like hissing:

"You must help me. I need you, don't you understand?", his voice was continually swelling with emotion, "This isn't just about me-"

"What are you going to do, Tate? You have already killed me. There is nothing left to take from me anymore. You can hurt me, but you are hurting yourself more. Whatever you do against me, goes against you as well. We all have reasons for deserving to be stuck here; everything happens for a reason, you know?"

Tate's fingers itched to move. He placed his hands around Ben Harmon's neck. He, however, merely scuffed.

"Well, do it. It makes no difference. At the end of the day, we'll be just as dead as we are now, and I suspect you even more so than me."

Tate didn't want to hear DR Harmon speak anymore. He knew he was right, and this infuriated Tate.

His head still bowed, his breathing slow and heavy, Tate jerked his hands to one side, revelling in the snap of bone he felt under his fingers. DR Harmon' s head fell limply to one side, but before Tate had left the room, He again sat erect in his chair, tracing the light and shadows on the floor with his eyes.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I realise it's been an awfully long time since I#Ve last updated and I'm terribly sorry about that. My laptop broke when I got home from my holiday and I haven't really been able to write. Sorry again! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

The morning that illuminated her room had long lost its magic. For years, Violet had felt nothing at the dawn of a new day. It was always sure to be devoid of anything extraordinary. Not that that was any different now, of course, but death had opened her eyes to a whole new layer of the world. She could see the dark undercurrents, the grey shadows pervading and haunting everything.

Death let her fully understand life.

It was something she had felt the day before in the old office, and it was something that was in the room with her all night. In the corner of her room, like a beast watching her; outside her window like someone tapping on it, begging to be let in.

She not only sensed it: it was something every part of her perceived; something her senses were awake to, were sharpened to. Something she knew was hiding a grim secret.

Perhaps she was just highly-strung. The crow last night had put her on edge. All night long, the creaking branches of the tree outside her window sounded too much like cawing for her to feel comfortable.

So, when morning finally broke it, if nothing else, it chased away the shadows with its glaring light. And Violet was sincerely glad about that.

Despite the brightness of it, the colours of everything seemed dimmed and faintly grey in hue.

Violet's anticipation could better be described as an anxiety to prove to herself that there was nothing wrong with the book. But also that she still had a grip on sanity.

So, the moment she woke, her eyes were drawn to the book lying on her bedroom floor. She sat up in bed and stepped out of bed with one leg, wondering whether she should really read it

She never really had a choice, though. Whatever it was that had first drawn her to the book, its magnetic pull overpowered her once again. So before she fully knew or understood what she was doing, it had once again landed in her hands. She dazedly opened it, only half-aware that she was actually awake. Once again her fingers touched the skin-like texture of the cover. Her fascination mingled with disgust and a faint panic made itself noticeable at the back of her mind. Violet wanted to throw the book out the window and devour it, all at once.

Yet all thoughts went straight from her mind when she saw the book's first page. It looked handwritten, and from the fading splotches of ink on the edges of the pages, it seemed to be even older than she had previously imagined it to be. The book's title had been written out once again. Its sub-heading "Of Shadows and Creatures and Souls" made Violet raise an eyebrow. _She had been freaking herself out over what? A story book? What bullshit. _

She flicked through the pages. They were all handwritten. Whoever had made the book must have spent ages on it. The pages were large and numerous, the writing small and squeezed together. On certain pages the author had written along the margins, sentences flowing in all directions. There were several drawings, only in black ink, yet alive with shape and shadows. Violet felt herself being pulled in. The animal heads of strange creatures looked her in the eye and a spider person beckoned to her with all eight of its arms. Girls stood before mirrors, seeing the future and the past and strange mists laid themselves over hills, where children had gathered to twist their arms and legs in strange dances.

The writing was strange, yet familiar. She could make sense of the words, yet the meaning of the sentences was lost on her. The letters all ran together. She started to lose her grip on the book as her hands became slick with sweat. A painful sensation beneath her temples made Violet screw shut her eyes. In her mind she could still see the women with their swirling shawls that they wore so long they trailed behind them as they moved. Their whispers began separately, but joined in a chorus. As they came together, their shawls whirled through the air and were blown from their faces as unseen dancers joined them.

Violet found herself shaking. She tried to will her eyes to open, but something else was stronger than her. There was a light rush of air as something moved past her. She heard its tapping footsteps first on the floor, then appearing to move up the wall on the far end of her room and settling down on the ceiling overhead.

By then her room was shaking with her and she felt as if she was being turned upside down, with fingers as light as air tracing her body, while her mind got hazy from the blood flowing into her head. She was unable to move a muscle, her eyes were still shut. Violet had never felt so defenceless in her life. Never had she been so utterly terrified. The time people had broken into her house to re-enact a murder that had once happened there seemed a joke in comparison. The threat then had been human. This, however, whatever it was that was circling her, most certainly wasn't.

Violet cursed the day she had found the book and she cursed the book for existing. The moving shadow in her room had been joined by others. One of them leant in to whisper something in her ear. Her breath and heartbeat quickened. She was breathing in and out so quickly that there was no time to complete either of the actions fully. The first thing she felt was her breath stop. The next how her heart became limp in her chest and her fingers froze, no longer being warmed by her blood, which all seemed to move into her head. And the last thing Violet thought before her brain gave up, was that she thought she could hear those _things _cackling. Everything after was black.

* * *

><p>Violet sat up with a start. She once again found herself in bed. Her fingers tingled and her head pounded. Her ears were filled with the sound of rushing blood as her heart tried to regain its normal pace. The first weak rays of sunlight of the day pushed their way between her curtains to streak the floor.<p>

Her thoughts were a jumble. The book lay open on the floor, where it had probably slipped out of her hands. That, however, was the only proof she had for herself, that what she had just experienced was not just a dream. Everything else seemed to indicate the opposite. No time had passed, though clearly Violet had felt it. She woke up at the same time for the second time that morning. It was as if she had never read the book.

Her hands trembled, when she looked at them and she realised that so was the rest of her. The T-Shirt she slept in clung to her body, wet with sweat. She went to her wardrobe to find something else to wear. Her knees gave in underneath her a few times. When she had finally made it to the wardrobe, her reflection in the mirror that was stuck onto it showed her a pale girl with black rings under her eyes. Violet leant back, only to immediately wince in pain when her back touched the wall. She tried to take of her shirt, but it stuck to her skin, making her whimper trying to tear it off. Bringing it over her head she saw dried red marks on the back. She tensed up, imagining a light draught moving past her. Slowly Violet turned her back to the mirror, not quite knowing what to expect or think. A sickening weight hit her stomach at the sight of her back. There were light scratches all over it. What stood out, though, was a large diamond shape that seemed to have been cut into her skin. At each of its corners there was a letter. Starting with an 's' at the top, followed by a 'u', 'p' and 'k'.

The T-Shirt slid from her hands and landed in a heap on the floor. Her eyes locked with those in her reflection, only to move a little to the left, where she saw the window through the gap in the curtains. Weird splatters covered it. Like in a trance, Violet walked to the window. She stood in front of it, before she had realised she was moving. Carefully, with a presentiment of _something_ she drew one curtain to the side.

Two beady eyes stared right at her. A beak torn open in a silent caw touched the glass. There was not much more to see. What had painted her window red was the blood of the crow, the head of which was placed on her window ledge. A fat fly settled on the crow's head. Others soon joined it, as they rubbed their legs together, destroying what death had taken, while she broke down screaming.

"Go away, go away go away go away away away away…"

* * *

><p>When he heard her scream Tate was at Violet's door in an instant. He was always somewhere near her room. He didn't know why or how. Most of the time he walked around the house, but he never failed to wind up at her door. He knew he couldn't ever pass through there again. Violet would tell him to go away and he would be forced to do as she said. That was also the case then. Tate stood at her door with his hand on the doorknob. But he heard her screaming for him to go away.<p>

_She had seen him. She knew he was watching her. Way to go- seeming like a fucking creep._

Tate banged his fists on the door. A scream of rage escaped his mouth. She would never let him in again. She would never love him again. And he- he would never stop loving her. His one redeeming quality had been his love for her and now he was forced to let the darkness swallow the little light he had experienced; the only thing that had in death reminded him of what life had been- or should have been.

His knuckles left red marks on the wall as he pushed them into it over and over again. He hit until he could feel his bones splinter and push through the skin on his hands, and even then Tate couldn't stop himself.

_He would crush his hands until there was nothing left. He would crush his whole body. What little difference it would make. _

As quickly as Tate had appeared in the corridor leading to Violet's room he disappeared again. Where to was a mystery even to him. He melted into the shadows. Into some place between this world and another, where he was alone in the everlasting embrace of the impenetrable darkness around him. In a place where there was no sound, no smell, nothing to feel- nothing of all those things which made the world the haven for life. There he would sit for hours, which felt like days and days that felt like minutes. There was no time there. Time was a concept for the living and those who pretended they were still alive. He was beyond that. He had been killed all over again and this time he had truly died.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: ****I realise it has been ages since I last posted a chapter. My life has just been so stressful lately and I am terribly sorry I haven't been able to write much. But now I will try to carry on with and finish this story. Thank you for the follows, the reviews, etc. I appreciate them a lot. xx**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

Whatever that place may be called that Tate went to- there among the shadows, among lost souls he would have considered not unlike his own, were it not for the fact that, to him, it was clear that he possessed no such thing- it was still. They were many there but they didn't even feel each other's existence for no one truly existed once they went there. In this great nothingness they assembled and felt nothing, perceived nothing and lost all sense of self only to be violently brought back into a world they had hoped they had left behind for good. Every time Tate was pulled from the darkness it became worse for him to return to the house. The shadows held no damped comfort for him; they didn't make him hope and experience for even a second that he had left the world of the living.

In truth, he went there to seek _her. _He had always been strange like that: Where others shrunk from death he reveled in it and when they wanted to let themselves slip into unconsciousness, her face appeared to him from within the darkness. Slowly it would peek at him from among the blackness and bring light into that place which knew no such thing. Among the dead, lost, and hopeless he found life. That was the only time it came to him; it was the only time _she_ came to him. He would stay in the shadows for as long as possible, but he was always thrown back into the blinding light and deafening noise of the world of the living.

What a cruel trick it was, to allow the homeless feel the empty, unexpectant embrace of nothingness, only to then push them out again. Every time made the light seem brighter, the noise louder, the life more unbearable. To be denied death, only allowed to indulge in short spells of it, and afterwards feeling, more strongly than ever, what torture it was to live. The lost dead's only comfort was, at the same time, their great torture: They knew what they could have, they knew the state of nothing one could achieve, but they were forever damned to be denied that pleasure.

Tate felt much the same as all the other souls at being brought back, though for different reasons. In the dark he was good. The light shone upon him. He wasn't faced with nothing, but with everything that could make people see life as something wonderful. When he went there, there was hope for him, but it was all too quick to leave when he returned to the reality of the house and the 'life' inside it.

This was also the case when he found himself in the darkened living room. The place reminded him of the shadows. It was hardly more cheerful, though not quite as still.

He didn't know what time it was. He didn't know what day it was - not even what year it was, but what he did know was that he felt different. Like some of the light had stayed with him. But there was also a weird, heady feeling he had. Like he had taken some strong medicine and felt only half conscious. When he stood up he became dizzy. Tate was shaky on his feet. He couldn't explain any of it to himself. Every inch of his body seemed covered in a prickly sensation. For want of a better explanation he would have said that he felt like in the moment he died- only in reverse. Instead of life slowly seeping out of him and resulting in a silhouette of who he used to be, his body felt denser, more real. His mind wandered less fast- Tate was in one place at a time. He no longer moved from room to room, only seeing flashes of what was happening around him. The drunk feeling went and was replaced by lucidity.

* * *

><p>Violet didn't know how she had done it, but she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn't remember getting up or leaving her room. She was starting to go crazy. There were long flashes of darkness between short periods of consciousness. And yet she moved around as she always had done, only with the exception that the longer she was dead, the less she pretended to be alive. She no longer ate and drank as she had done for months after her death- it had been as if she didn't want to accept her fate, like the final nail hadn't been put in the coffin.<p>

As she stood there, the events of the previous night or previous day came to her- perhaps it had been a lot longer ago, she hardly had a concept of time anymore. Violet shuddered at her own reflection. She seemed to have changed. Whatever it was that had entered her room that night- it and its actions had taken a toll on her. Her back stung. The pain made her close her eyes, though she relished it. She hadn't felt anything for so long that even that was a slight relief to her. Violet's thoughts weren't as clouded anymore, though she wished they still were. There was nothing in her mind but the whispers that flew around her room and crept into her ear, the nails that scratched her and the presence that would terrorize both the living and the dead.

Violet turned around to examine her back. The scratches were just as deep and visible as they had been in her room. She let her fingers trace her shoulder-blades and over her back, as far down as she could reach.

Something had happened and it had been her who had allowed it to. She had found the book. She had opened it, read it even, though as soon as she started to read it, the book took on a life of its own. I_t read her- _it knew all her fears and made them appear before her and Violet had a feeling it could do far more than that, if placed in the right hands. And if placed in the wrong hands- who knew what havoc it could wreak?

Only then did she realise she had left the book in her room. She knew the ghosts in the house. Quite a few of them had grown evil in death- the grudges they held when alive had been nurtured in the time since their death and they longed for an opportunity to vent the anger they felt. Violet didn't know what exactly was written in the book and she wasn't going to let any of the other ghosts find out before her.

She walked back into her room. Violet could sense the alert eyes and ears of all the others in the house- they too had noticed the change in the atmosphere. For the moment they kept to themselves. She had to act before any of them decided to leave the nooks they slipped into, and came to see what was happening.

The book lay on the floor. Without giving herself the time to hesitate, Violet walked towards it and picked it up. She didn't know what to do with it. It was obvious that she would have to destroy it. The only methods to do that would be tearing it into shreds or burning. There was no way Violet was going to open that book again. Everything inside her pulled together at the feeling of the leather of the book in her hands. The longer she held it, the stronger this tingling repulsion towards the object in her hands became.

Violet's mind started to become confused again- the evil beings crept from their hiding spots and came closer to her again. She had to do something before she would pass out once more. In an instant Violet was out of the room and bounding down the staircase. Her steps were heavy and loud on the old wood. Some ghosts collected at the top of the staircase but she paid no attention to them. There was no use in being secretive now- soon there would be no secret for her to keep.

She ran into the living room. Her parents sat in front of the lit fire, the baby in their arms. They hardly noticed her and if they did, they didn't let her know it. Violet threw the book into fire from a distance and she stood to watch it burn to ashes, and with it whatever it was that had been tormenting her. But nothing happened. Violet stared at the book among the flames. Her hands shook at her side, her eyes were wide open.

_ It couldn't be- It had to burn. She couldn't do this. She couldn't stay in the house with the book. _

Violet's knees were weak under her body. She fell to the ground before the fire.

"Burn! Burn you piece of shit- Why won't you burn?"

She reached her hands into the fire so she could cover the book with the wood that was burning bright and hot. _It only had to catch fire. It wasn't hot enough yet for it to burn. _Violet kept digging through the fire, scraping up ash and soot as her fingers grazed across the stone of the fireplace. She screamed both out of frustration and pain. Her skin was blistering and melting off the flesh that lay beneath it. And despite all this the book still refused to burn. It sat among the fire and seemed to mock her foolishness- _What made her think that a book powerful enough to conjure up the spirits that were in her room last night, could be destroyed by throwing it into fire?_

Meanwhile, Tate stood in the doorframe of the living room. Violet's screams tore at him. There were tears running down his face. He couldn't ignore her pain even if her family could. They ignored her because they didn't have it in them to care about anyone but themselves anymore. All of the ghosts had become either evil, intent on revenge on whoever was unfortunate to come their way, or entirely self-absorbed. Tate, however, was neither. He still felt for others. He still had a wider range of emotions than the others. The strongest was his love for Violet, though. It had been ever since he had discovered it and in that moment it was more powerful than his better judgement.

He was by her side in a moment and pulled her hands out of the fire. Violet was far too exhausted to resist him. He couldn't bear to look at her hands. They were charred almost to the bone. Violet kept muttering , saying that something "wouldn't burn". She looked around with wild eyes, but never up at him. He couldn't decide what hurt more: Seeing her this frail and injured, or not being given any attention, although he was the only one who cared about her. _Damn it, why wouldn't she let him in? Why was she putting this blockage between them? He was there for her- he always had been. When no one else was there, he was. _

It was almost enough to make him want to drop her on the floor. He had done wrong things in the past, it was true, but why wouldn't she allow herself to see that he had changed for her?- because of her?. Tate carried her out of the living room. He wanted to calm her down, but he didn't know what to say. Secretly he was afraid that the sound of his voice would only make things worse. He carried her up into the bathtub. All the others were watching. He carried her past them all and kicked the bathroom door closed when he was inside with her. Tate slowly lowered Violet down into the bathtub and switched on the cold water. He could hardly see past the tears that were blurring his vision. The scene that was playing out just then was too similar to one he had experienced only a few months ago- at least he thought months had passed since then. But then she had been his and now she wouldn't even look at him.

Violet groaned in the bathtub.

" It stings- God it stings so much."

She too was crying. Tate was standing at a distance from the bathtub. He didn't know how close he could get to her.

Her groans were becoming more agonised. Violet was all but screaming.

" It stings so much! Make it stop. Someone make it stop!" Sobs were making her shoulders shake. She was thrashing about in the bathtub half mad with pain and fear.

Tate had to kneel next to the bathtub then. He couldn't allow her to injure herself even more. He held her shoulders. Violet still threw her head around, screaming.

"Please stop, please. You have to calm down. Shit, it's gonna stop, ok, Vi? You hear me? It won't hurt much longer. It's gonna heal. It all heals, remember? Vi, please!"

"No, no- Nothing heals! Look at my hands. Look!" Tate had to turn his head away. He couldn't bring himself to look at Violet's burnt hands.

"No, you're in shock. Listen, it all heals now. Nothing can hurt any of us anymore."

She answered him with groans and screams, only to faint in his arms. Tate had to hold her up so her head wouldn't sink in the water. Violet tipped forward, her long hair hung in wet strands. That was when he saw a scratch that extended from her neck down under the collar of her T-Shirt. He lifted the fabric to look at Violet's back. The network of scratches and the bruises surrounding them hurt him more than her, or so he imagined.

He held Violet's head in both his hands. She was leaning against the edge of the bathtub. Tate pressed his forehead against hers.

"What's been going on, Vi? Tell me what's been going on!" He began slowly, but by the end of the sentence his voice was louder than he wanted it to be. His anger had always been stronger than him, but Tate had to control himself. He had lost too much to anger. He couldn't lose Violet again. Whatever it took, he would make her listen to him. He would make sure that she would let him in again.

He was still crying, but it didn't wake Violet up. Her hands were limp in the water.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ****Again, I apologise. I just didn't have any time for writing until now, but I really want to finish this story! Than you for all the reviews I really appreciate them and thank for staying with this story although I haven't updated very frequently (aka: hardly ever)! So thank you again. I appreciate every review, every follow, every view and it is just lovely to see this much appreciation for my writing!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: None of the characters portrayed are of my creation. They are the creative property of Brad Falchuk and Ryan Murphy. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6:<strong>

Constance stood on the doorstep and looked up at the house. She had no reason to be hesitant, shy even, about opening the door. She had as much a right to enter it as anybody else had. The house contained the majority of what her life had once been- so much of her story was written on the walls and etched into the floors. She wasn't going to let anyone take the house from her.

Secretly she had been glad when Billie's exorcism- or what the hell it had been- failed. She couldn't let her children be taken from her like that. She had failed them, it was true, but they had also failed _her. _They were never what they could have been. She seemed to have everything that would secure her the family she wanted: a handsome husband, enough money, a mansion and her own beauty, of course.

_Well what has come of it? You've done wrong often enough in your life, but this boy was sent to you for a reason. That he was. _

She opened the door and stepped inside. The heels of her shoes clacked loudly on the wooden floor. It made her feel strong when she made her presence known like that. All around her doors were shut and blinds closed. There was a carpet of dust covering the floors.

"Well, where are you all at? I'm feeling a little peckish. Is Moira's service becoming worse now that you let her become lazy? I have half a mind to find some new inhabitants for this house. It seems a little empty, don't you agree?"

"What do you want, Constance?"

"Well, well, that took you quite a bit longer than it should have. But firing you would only strain the atmosphere even more, I suppose. How's the family getting on? My little angel is growing wonderfully, if Mrs. Harmon should ever ask you. I tell you, it is all due to my telling her to eat the brain. Nothing better than that if one wants to have a lively, strong little child. The other one wasn't so lucky. A great tragedy, but one rather common in twins, from all I've heard."

"Was that your purpose for coming here, Constance? To chat with the neighbors? As I know you, you act to spite. What is it this time?"

"Think what you like of me, but don't you presume to know me. In the end, I suppose, it is all down to jealousy, wasn't it always that way, Moira? Because no matter what you say or do to me, you will never have what I had. He only used you."

Constance stood close to Moira's face. In a swift motion she walked past Moira and towards the stairs, her heels announcing her arrival to anyone who hadn't noticed her yet. Her hand was already on the bannister when Moira spoke again.

"You don't know what you're doing, Constance. That child is of the devil and may heaven be good on us, if you let him loose on the world."

Constance turned around to face the old woman: "Now, Moira, don't spoil my mood. We've had such good times. There's nobody quite like you when it comes to blood and bleach."

She was about to continue her walk up the stairs, when the glowing embers in the living room fireplace caught her eye. The windows and blinds were all closed. There was nothing but the faint orange glow from the fire amidst the darkness of the room.

"I do hope my murals are still on display. Hugo was always such an admirer of my art.", Constance said.

She walked into the room. She wasn't quite sure why she did it, but there was an enticing pull from the orange, red glow. There were no sounds apart from her feet moving across the floor. It suddenly seemed exaggeratedly loud to her. Constance felt like she was intruding somewhere where she shouldn't be. It was an unusual situation for her. She was a woman who had always been sure of herself, she was never one to bow to foolish whims nor opposition. A woman who knew how to use her mind and her charms to her advantage; all together a creature to be feared. And yet, despite all this, her life felt curiously empty. Her hopes had been disappointed so often. She had given up on them and lost them to other things. All she had wanted to achieve had been sabotaged in a cruel joke of fate. She would make sure her little angel would succeed where she hadn't. She was going to do it right, at least this once.

She stood in front of the fireplace and looked down at the ashes and embers that were scattered across the floor in front of the fire. A book among the cinders caught her eyes. She bowed down to look at it more closely. It looked in perfect condition, but when she reached out to remove it from the remains of a fire that had burnt there not long ago, her hand recoiled from the touch of the hot leather. She picked up a fire poker that was lying nearby and pulled the book out from under the ashes and onto the floor. Lying there, it looked like any other book. Constance was puzzled. The book had evidently been thrown into the fire and left there to burn, and yet it hadn't.

She didn't know what she was doing when she picked it up. The hot leather was hurting her hands, she could feel her skin prickling from the heat, but she couldn't drop the book. She left the house, ignoring Moira standing by the living room door, ignoring Travis who greeted her in the hall, ignoring her plans of visiting Beau. All she felt and all she could think of was the book in her hands. As she stood on the porch, the wind-chime in the tree played its song in the wind and crows settled on a branch. Constance made her way back to her house in silence. She didn't even hear her shoes on the pavement anymore.

* * *

><p>Tate was crouched next to the bathtub. Violet was still lying in it and groaning from time to time, though mostly she made no sound. It was that which unnerved him the most. He could tell she was still in a lot of pain, but he couldn't explain it to himself. Her hands seemed just as raw and charred as they had been hours ago. Nothing was happening and he didn't understand why.<p>

At first, Tate believed his perception of time had been skewered even more. For months, he hadn't been lucid and aware for such a long period of time. But he could hear the clock downstairs steadily ticking on and he began to believe what it was telling him: Time _was _passing, but her pain wasn't.

Violet was still passed out and it was beginning to frighten him. It shouldn't take her that long to come back around again. Tate wanted to blame someone for her pain. What had she been doing? What had made her willingly burn her hands almost down to the bone? But he couldn't find a culprit without her telling him what had happened and he couldn't hope for that.

Tate found himself admitting to himself that as much as he wanted Violet to wake up and be ok, he enjoyed being able to be with her like that. He knew she would never let him be so close to her for such a long space of time if she were awake. And yet, his wish for her wellbeing was stronger than his desire for her. He knew that if he wanted to he could have her and take her right then and there. Perhaps with other girls he would have done it, but never with her. He couldn't really explain it to himself. It all always got too much and he would give in every time to drive away whatever it was that was haunting him. But that situation was more complicated. He was haunted by the wish to be good, to do good, but he was battling one side of himself with the other. And it was her who had urged on the light in him.

Tate held her head in his hands and pressed Violet's face to his shoulder. His whispered words to her were hardly coherent, but he wanted to hold her. It was the only thing he could think of that he could do just then. But he had to let her go when he felt Violet stir in his arms and heard her groans become more frequent, though less agonised. He carefully let her rest against the edge of the bathtub again. Her hands in the water looked more pink than red and black. But Violet started to babble and raise her voice, quite as if the movement hurt her.

Tate tried to hold her steady. He pressed his forehead against hers.

"Shh, Vi, please don't. Try to calm down. Shit, I don't know-"

Tate tried hard to restrain his anger. He lowered his eyes to avoid her pale face. The pain and suffering was etched into it.

When Tate looked down at the water, he saw Violet's skin restoring itself and once again becoming as he knew it. He just pulled her closer then and, to his own surprise, felt her arms slowly wrapping around him. Only then she tensed up and Tate knew he had lost her again. For those hours she had belonged to him and it was the feeling of her responding to him again that stuck in his mind when he was in the darkness of the cellar.

But he saw she wasn't fully conscious yet, so he lifted her out of the bathtub and lowered her onto the floor. Tate pushed away the strands of wet hair that stuck to Violet's face. He carefully undressed her, trying not to move her too much. Tate dried her hair with a towel and slipped off his shirt to dress her in it. His fingers ghosted over her shoulders when he slipped it over her head. He wanted to touch Violet's soft skin, but he had gone too far already. He was trying to restrain himself. He was going to do the right thing.

When she was dressed and somewhat dry, Tate carried her into her room. In her semi unconscious state she would sometimes look up at him with a bemused expression on her face. Tate laid her on her bed and allowed himself to hold her hand before he left the room. The skin was taut and had a more leathery feel to it than he remembered. But Tate couldn't allow himself to think about it for too long. She was already becoming more conscious and he quietly left the room and made his way to the cellar.

He felt eyes all around him, but no one left their hiding places; not even Hayden. Tate was glad and disappointed at the same time. He had to take his anger out on something, but he couldn't allow himself to. Not now, when he was closer to her than he had been in ages. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for your continued support! Please review xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7:**

Constance had trouble climbing the stairs to her porch with the heavy shopping in her arms. Though she would never admit it, not even to herself, she was growing old and her strength wasn't close to what it had once been. It was no shame to weaken after the life she had lived, the troubles she had endured; but to her it would never do. So she never asked for anybody's help, never even hinting at the fact that she might indeed sometimes need some assistance.

She knew that behind her back the neighbours spoke of her- they always had, after all. The whispers were that she took young lovers to nurse her rather than please her in bed. But it was always the women who gossiped about her and she could hardly blame them: They'd seen her take one neighbours husband so who was to say that she wouldn't do it again?

Constance smiled to herself. Her eyes glinted wickedly. In truth, they were afraid of her. They had all witnessed the events of the past decades. Constance had been cursed in every way imaginable: her children had all been imperfect in some way or another, her husband had cheated on her, her son had caused much grief, as had her lovers, she had lost all of her children and the house she had lived in for many years. And yet, through all of this, she had survived and while others dropped dead all around her, she remained a fixture in the neighbourhood.

She sometimes wondered whether her true curse was to live, to witness more suffering with every day that passed.

The wind-chime in the tree next door sung its song in the breeze. Constance turned her head in the direction of the sound. All the shutters on the windows were closed and the façade was starting to look dirty. For months nobody but her had gone near the house. That made the neighbours talk, but she didn't waste any thoughts on them. They didn't understand. They thought they did, as stupid people always do, but none of them could even imagine what was truly going on next door.

Constance herself didn't even know everything about the house. Its secrets were of the kind that no living being was ever meant to understand. If anyone needed proof of a higher power, she thought, all they would have to do was step through the front door of a house down their street.

What she did hope, though, was to learn more about the house. To uncover some of its many secrets and she felt that the book she had found in the house would help her with the task.

She knew that it had been almost _too_ conveniently placed; quite as if someone or something was waiting for her to find it, but she pushed aside that thought, preferring to think of herself as having been chosen to find the book.

She had become a victim to the flaw that all of humanity shared: Everyone wants to see themselves as superior to others, wishing to find out something that will put them outside of the group of humans and move them closer to some great truth that the world has possessed, yet never understood for millions of years.

Constance believed she had the means of attaining that closeness to "the truth" with the book. There was something about it that gave off a hint of something so mysterious, so guarded a secret, that to even have it written down gave off an aura of danger.

When she walked into her house, she kicked the door to close it. She walked into the kitchen and dropped the heavy shopping bags onto the table, all the while humming a tune to herself.

When she looked around, most cupboards were half empty. There were even some boxes on the ground. She had started to pack the day after baby Michael killed his baby sitter. She had been strangely proud of him for that, but she had also known that it was time to move on, move away. Her whole past was scattered along this street, everything she had ever been. But Constance knew that it was time to leave it all behind and the beautiful baby had been her turning point.

It had previously already been too dangerous to stay in the area: The police was still trying to figure out many details about the murders next door and with her general involvement in the Harmon family's concerns, they always came asking questions. She knew she was smart, that she could charm them, confuse them; but her charms wouldn't last forever, and though she was smart, she knew that sooner or later even she would have a slip-up. There was too much at stake to risk that. Constance may be proud and she loathed to be seen leaving the area, as though she were haunted by her past there, but she wasn't stupid. And most importantly, she had Michael to think of.

But she was confused about what she wanted. The book- it seemed like a sign of some kind. She knew she had to leave, but it was as if the book was compelling her to stay a little longer.

If Constance were to be honest with herself, she would find that what she wanted was to submit fully to the house's curse. She wanted eternity with her family, she wanted to stay near them. But what she didn't want was to be trapped. She had spent all her life in a sort of trap. She had been offered the key that would open it, but she had found comfort in the confines.

Constance had to choose between truth and freedom, not realising that the two were linked.

The air inside the house was heavy and suffocating. Most rooms were dark and the little light that found its way inside through cracks in shutters gave the rooms a gloomy hue.

Nothing had happened in the house for the past few days. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. The atmosphere was tense and everyone felt that if any little thing happened, everything would break and fall together like a house of cards.

So when a wind was heard howling down the chimney, sending swirls of ash flying through the living room, activity was perceived throughout the house. The most notable was a red ball bouncing down the attic stairs and rolling towards Moira's feet. She looked up the stairs and saw Beau standing there. She might have felt a pang of pity, but she couldn't help but think that he was only the physical representation for Constance's twisted inner workings. All of her children were, in a way. She was being punished by way of her womb. Constance's great wish had been to have the perfect family that one could present to others as an example they should try to emulate. Moira couldn't help but be satisfied that it was exactly this that Constance was denied.

But Moira was also slightly disquieted. She too had felt the change in the atmosphere. She knew that Halloween was approaching, the night that spirits could wander among the living, but this time, it was different. Beau standing there only confirmed this. Normally, he would never stray from his room in the attic. The air was heavy, as if it were laden with incense, and he had felt it just like the rest of them.

" Go back to your room, Beau." She heard Tate's voice next to her. Even after all these years she was still surprised at how quietly the ghosts could move.

"You don't like it out here. It's too cold.", he continued, ignoring the pressing heat surrounding them.

Moira saw Beau creep back to the door and disappear through it. She shuddered at her own thought of how something so innocent could look so demonic, yet his brother, who was the devil's own, could look so very like an angel. It was the cruel irony of the world.

Tate turned to Moira to speak. He didn't know why he had come to her, but he felt like she was one of the few people he felt he could trust. He knew well enough that she despised his actions, but he also knew that somewhere inside her, she could understand him.

His mother had made him cruel. She had only set the example that he followed.

"Moira, I need your help"

"And why should I help you?"

"It wouldn't be for me. It's Violet. She's hurt and I'm frightened because she isn't getting better and- shit, I don't know."

He wiped his face with his hand. When he looked at Moira once more he could see her features were softened. She was fond of the girl and he knew then that she would help him.

"Lead me to her, Tate, though I can't promise I will be able to help."

**A/N: I can't say how sorry I am for not updating. Life keeps getting in the way, but I can promise you that I will finish this story! Thank you for your support xx read and review please!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

If possible, Violet's room was even more oppressive than the rest of the house. The curtains were drawn, casting a dingy light over everything. Moira could only advance slowly- there were things scattered all over the floor. Violet was lying on her bed with the covers pulled up to her knees. Her burnt hands rested on her stomach, still raw and blistered. Her face was deadly pale, the strange lighting in the room created eerie shadows on her face. Moira shuddered at the scene before her. She had never witnessed something so completely uniting every facet of death.

As she walked towards Violet, Tate stayed by the open door. She looked down at Violet, who remained completely motionless, even when Moira lifted one of her hands to look at the injuries more closely. In the gloom she could only make out the texture of Violet's skin: blistered, charred, like molten wax. She would have to open the curtains to be able to examine the wounds more closely.

As she did so, she suddenly started and took a step back in shock. The crow's head was still on the window-sill, where Violet had found it. Only now there was nothing left but the bone and some shreds of rotting flesh. Moira turned away in disgust and looked at Tate. His gaze was fixed on Violet and his hand was gripping the door-frame so hard it seemed he might shatter the wood.

"What happened to her, Tate?"

He jumped slightly when she spoke. His eyes lingered on Violet's still form for just a moment longer. He reluctantly tore himself away from her.

"I don't know. She- Her hands they were in the fire. She was trying to save something I think, I don't know. They just watched, you know. Just sat there and watched, the-" Tate stopped himself and hid his head in his hands.

Moira examined Violet's hands again. They were limp in her grip. With the light she could see that the injuries were far more serious than she had previously thought. In some places the startling whiteness of bone met her eye.

"How long has she been like this for? It's very unusual for the healing to take long."

"I don't know. It was last night, I think. God, - Shit, I don't know." Tate seemed to have a hard time controlling himself.

"I could apply some ointment to the burns, some other little remedies I can find around the house, something for the pain, perhaps…" Moira trailed off. She didn't really know what to do. The situation was so strange. It shouldn't be. Even under the already ridiculous circumstances of their ghost life it was absurd. Why should she not heal? She was no longer made of flesh and blood. All injuries were only brief moments of intense physical pain that left no mark. Moira knew this from experience.

The heat was making her dizzy. She didn't know where to turn, what to do.

"Will you do that, then? Moira! Moira, will you get ointment and all the rest?"

Tate was staring at her intently. His eyes on her were too much. She couldn't possibly force herself past his looming presence to go down to get the medicine. She couldn't face Violet; the sight was more than she could take. She couldn't face the window. The crow's head was staring at her. She could feel its empty eye sockets boring into the back of her head with mocking derision. She had to turn her gaze inwards and saw only the blackness in her mind and her mother beckoning to her. Moira sank to her knees, then to the floor as she fainted.

* * *

><p>Constance sat down by her kitchen table, the book in front of her. She was drawing out the moment- almost avoiding to open the book. She leant back in her chair, took one last drag of her cigarette, blew the smoke towards the ceiling and simply placed the still glowing butt in the ashtray. Thin wisps of smoke rose from it, making her think of burning incense. Constance felt almost esoteric and scoffed at herself.<p>

There was no avoiding it. She had brought the book into her house for one reason only and that was to read it. She saw no reason why she should not stick to her plans. Constance was a decisive woman- always had been, had always had to be. Yet, why was she having trouble deciding on doing something as simple as reading a book?

The truth was that she had a sense of foreboding, which she was trying to ignore, though not very successfully. Her instincts had hardly ever betrayed her. Constance had always had to rely on them as much as on her rational mind.

She finally propped her elbows on the table and looked down at the cover. Her fingers trailed across the soft leather. Her touch told her it was remarkably soft, but her mind ignored it. She laughed at the bold lettering.

" 'Tales of the Pure, the Obscure and the Sinister'. Well, well. A story book, it seems."

She laughed a little too loudly in an attempt to ignore that the hair on the nape of her neck was standing on end.

Constance lifted the book up and looked at it from all angles. It was a little black here and there from being placed in the fire-place, but that was all. If someone had tried to destroy it, then they hadn't been successful.

The orange light of the setting sun slanted through the window, tinging everything in fiery hues and throwing strange, elongated shadows. Constance got up to switch on the kitchen light. She figured it would be a long night, so she poured herself some whiskey to ease into it.

When she sat back down, something had changed. The book still made her skin prickle, but, above all, she now felt excited. She took a sip of whiskey. The warmth it spread in her body was replaced by icy goosebumps as soon as she touched the book again. Before she knew what she was doing, Constance had opened it. She noticed the ink blots, yellowed pages. But more than anything else she noticed the handwritten text. It looked rushed, like someone had only had a short amount of time to complete it, squeezing in everything they could by writing in the margins.

Constance felt herself slowly drifting away. She was so enamoured by the book that she didn't notice how the hours slipped by. In the sky orange was replaced by blue, then various leaden shades and finally the deep black of night. The world outside her window was silent, nothing stirred. Constance had forgotten about everything but herself and the book.

Her senses were heightened to a level of mania. That and the glasses of whiskey she got through made the pictures move before her eyes. The shading was so wonderfully done. The black and white of the ink drawings seemed realer than she did. The girls in the picture appeared to read the accompanying text to her.

_When the darkness calls the young girls follow. What could be more suited than their purity's white? The shadows see them:" Make them dance!" they say. They gather at night, in nature's midst. The darkness surrounds them. The mists make their shrouds stick to their skin. It is a procession. The young dead are damned. The shadows would claim them for their own. _

These passages of text varied in length and were always followed by songs, incantations or ritualistic dances and spells. Constance knew she should find the book ridiculous; that she should put it down and laugh about it. But the voice that said this was nothing but a quiet urging at the back of her mind.

She turned page after page and the hours rushed on. Before she knew it she had reached the end of the book. On the last page there was a drawing of swirling mists with bony hands covered in translucently white skin reaching out from them.

Constance was mad for more. She turned the book, shook it to find notes that might be hidden, but there was nothing. She once again reached the last page. Her skin was burning and freezing at the same time. She felt everything with an intensity she had never known. Suddenly her eyes were drawn to the binding of the book. It was a little loose around the edges. With careful fingers Constance peeled it away. There was an inscription, written in tiny letters and in a strange reddish-brown ink that wasn't used anywhere else in the book.

_Oh, damned soul, what have you done?_

_You called the shadows, now they stay._

_What little truth you now have won_

_Will not help you on this way._

_I wanted all, and some I've found,_

_But had to give more in my turn._

_All around me they abound_

_I am lost. This is my urn. _

The last few words were barely written onto the page, the very last one ending in a line, as if the writer had been knocked.

Constance sat frozen in her chair. Without knowing what she was doing she peeled the skin back further. Suddenly the light above her head flickered. The moment Constance looked up, the bulb burst and sent tiny shards of glass flying in her face. She cursed, trying to get her bearings in the darkness all around her.

Constance wanted to get up to look for a candle, but was paralysed in her chair. A cloud moved away from the moon and the cold, bleak light entered the kitchen. Something tapped the window. Being able to see just enough to make out the silhouettes of things was even worse than total darkness. If we see a little, our mind supplements the rest, creating the things we fear the worst without even knowing it. Where there is simple darkness, there is space for rationality.

Constance managed to shake off enough of her terror to reach for her cigarettes and lighter. Years of extremes had hardened her psyche to a certain degree. She put a cigarette in her mouth and was going to light it, when the flame was blown out by a sudden rush of air from the door. The gust blew an odd cloud of dust from the book and into Constance's face. It stung her eyes and made her cough. Her eyes watered and washed enough of it away for her to be able to see again.

When she moved her eyes to the door she started. Drawn in the silver of the moon and the black of the night stood Michael. A child in nothing but form, the proof of which was painted on his face. His eyes studied her with a hunger no child should possess; the look of it on a supposed innocent's face was revolting enough to make her want to retch. His mouth was stretched into a diabolical grin. Constance could only stare at him in sheer horror. When he began walking towards her, she whimpered like a cornered animal, her usual composure forgotten. Her scream got stuck in her throat when she looked behind him.

He had two shadows.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hi everyone. Thanks for sticking with me and reviewing! I hope you liked this chapter. I'll honestly try to update more frequently, but please forgive me if I don't. :)**


End file.
